The Comparison Game
A Fictional Story by Camwhore1.
There was this one guy, Brandon, who I’d known since sophomore year. Tall, broad-shouldered, played rugby. He had this habit—especially after a few beers—of bringing up his dick in conversation. It wasn’t subtle. We’d be sitting around playing beer pong or doing shots, and he’d somehow steer things toward his size.
“I’m telling you, man, it’s a blessing and a curse,” he’d say, slouched on some couch with a red solo cup. “Hard to find condoms that fit right. Magnums are still tight.”
Most of the guys would roll their eyes or tell him to shut the fuck up. The girls had mixed reactions. Some would giggle and egg him on. Others would call him out.
“You’re so obsessed with your own dick,” my friend Kendra said one night, not meanly, just matter-of-factly. “It’s like you want a medal for something you didn’t even do anything to earn.”
Brandon just laughed. “Jealous?”
“Not really.” She sipped her drink. “Big dick energy is usually just… energy. The guys who talk about it the most are usually compensating.”
I shrank into the couch cushion. I knew exactly what I was packing—about three and a half inches hard, barely thicker than my thumb. I’d measured enough times, hoping for different results and never got them.
But Brandon wasn’t lying. I found that out the hard way at a Halloween party our friend group threw.
We were all pretty wasted. Someone’s bright idea was to play strip poker, which devolved into just… people getting naked for no real reason. The poker part got abandoned after twenty minutes.
Brandon was dressed as a gladiator—basically a leather skirt and a fake sword. When he lost the skirt, he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
“Helicopter time!” someone shouted.
And there it was. He grabbed his dick and swung his hips, and this thick, heavy cock flopped around in a circle. Soft, it had to be at least five inches. The thing swung like a pendulum.
The room erupted. Half the people were screaming, half were laughing. A couple of girls clapped.
“Okay, I take it back,” Kendra admitted, holding up her hands. “That’s impressive.”
“See?” Brandon grinned, still helicoptering. “Told you.”
I stayed fully clothed in the corner, clutching my beer, trying to look amused instead of mortified. My costume was a vampire—cape, fake fangs, the works. Easy to hide behind.
Later that night, I ended up in the kitchen with Brandon and two girls from our extended friend group—Jessica and Nicole. They were both giggly and flushed from drinking.
“So is it true?” Nicole asked, leaning against the counter. “About the Magnum thing?”
Brandon shrugged, not even pretending to be modest. “Wanna see?”
Jessica squeaked. “Brandon!”
“You asked.” He tugged at his costume skirt. “I’m not shy.”
He pulled it off again. His dick hung there, thick and heavy against his thigh. Even soft, it looked massive to me.
Nicole bit her lip. Jessica covered her eyes but peeked through her fingers.
“Holy shit,” Nicole said. “That’s… yeah. Okay.”
“Can I touch it?” Jessica asked, voice small.
Brandon spread his arms. “Be my guest.”
She reached out and wrapped her hand around it. Her fingers didn’t even touch.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “That’s what, like, eight inches?”
“Eight and a half,” Brandon said proudly. “Hard, anyway.”
I stood there like a ghost. Nobody acknowledged me. I was invisible, watching this girl stroke my friend’s massive cock in the middle of the kitchen while Nicole watched and giggled.
Eventually they wandered off to one of the bedrooms. I finished my beer alone.
—
There was another guy, too—Damon. He didn’t brag as Brandon did, but he had no problem showing off when prompted.
We were at a lake house weekend, about twelve of us crammed into a three-bedroom rental. Saturday night, everyone was trashed. Someone brought out a deck of cards for truth or dare.
“Damon, truth or dare?” Kendra asked.
“Dare.”
“I dare you to… let someone measure your dick.”
The girls cheered. The guys groaned.
“Fine.” Damon stood up, unbuttoned his swim trunks, and let them drop. He was already half-hard.
“Who’s measuring?”
Jessica ran to grab a ruler from the kitchen junk drawer. She came back and knelt in front of him.
“Okay, let’s see…” She pressed the ruler against his shaft. “Six and three-quarters. And that’s just chub.”
Damon smirked. “Give me a minute.”
He started stroking himself right there in front of everyone. I couldn’t look away. His cock grew longer and thicker, the head swelling purple. Jessica held the ruler steady.
“Seven and a half… eight… eight and a quarter.”
“Keep going,” someone said.
Damon’s hand moved faster. His dick jutted out from his body, thick and veined, the ruler looking almost comical against it.
“Eight and three-quarters,” Jessica announced. “That’s the final number.”
Applause. Someone whistled. Kendra shook her head, but she was smiling.
“Okay, my turn,” Damon said, tucking himself back into his trunks. “Who’s next?”
“Me,” said a quiet voice.
Everyone turned. It was this girl Amber, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She’d been pretty quiet all weekend.
“Truth,” she said.
Damon thought for a second. “What’s the smallest dick you’ve ever seen?”
My stomach clenched.
Amber considered the question, swirling her drink. “Honestly? This guy I hooked up with freshman year. I literally thought he was hard when he wasn’t. When he actually got hard, I couldn’t even tell the difference.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“Like how small?” Brandon asked.
“I don’t know, like… three inches? Maybe?” She held up her fingers, barely apart. “I couldn’t even give him a proper handjob. My whole hand covered it.”
More laughter. Someone made a joke about pinky fingers.
“Did you finish?” Kendra asked.
Amber shook her head. “I pretended I had to leave. I felt bad, but I just… couldn’t. I needed something actual to fuck.”
I sat perfectly still, face burning, praying nobody looked at me. My three and a half inches was barely better than what she described. My hand covered it completely too.
“What about you, Kendra?” Damon asked. “Smallest?”
Kendra made a face. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Come on, we shared.”
She sighed. “Fine. There was this guy I dated briefly. Sweet guy, really nice. But yeah, small. Like, I didn’t feel much. We tried different positions, but it just… kept slipping out.”
“Oof,” Brandon said.
“It wasn’t his fault. He was super self-conscious about it, which made sex worse. He’d apologize constantly. I tried to be supportive, but…” She shrugged. “We broke up for other reasons.”
I drained my cup and went to get more punch, escaping the circle. My hands were shaking.
—
The worst moment came a few months later at a New Year’s party. I’d been talking to this girl Vanessa all night. She was funny, cute, and actually seemed interested in me. We’d been flirting for hours.
Midnight hit. Everyone kissed whoever was closest. Vanessa grabbed me and planted one on my lips. It lingered.
“Come upstairs with me?” she whispered.
My heart pounded. I nodded.
We found an empty bedroom. She pulled me onto the bed, kissing me hard. Her hands went to my belt.
I froze.
“Hey,” she murmured against my mouth. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just… nervous.”
“Don’t be.” She kissed my neck. “I want this.”
She unbuttoned my jeans and slid her hand inside. Her fingers found my cock through my underwear. I was hard—or as hard as I get.
She paused.
Her hand moved, exploring. Then she pulled back and looked down, pulling my waistband away to see.
“Oh.”
The word hung in the air.
“What?” I asked, voice tight.
She stared at my cock, barely visible in my underwear. “I just… didn’t expect…”
“Is something wrong?”
Vanessa looked up at me. Her expression wasn’t cruel—just confused. Disappointed.
“I thought you were bigger,” she said honestly.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “I know it’s—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s fine. Let’s just…”
She tried to stroke me, but her movements were mechanical. I could tell she wasn’t into it. My tiny dick twitched pathetically in her hand.
After a minute, she stopped.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t. I just… I need more. I’m sorry.”
She got up and left the room.
I lay there with my pants around my ankles, three and a half inches pointing at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck I was supposed to do.
—
I ran into Brandon in the hallway later that night. He took one look at my face and knew something had happened.
“Strike out?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, man. Happens to everyone.”
I almost laughed. Brandon had no idea what it was like to be me. To watch him swing his eight inches around like a trophy while I hid in the shadows, terrified someone would ask me to prove myself.
But he was right about one thing—it did happen to everyone, just not for the same reasons.
I still hang out with that crew. Brandon still brags when he’s drunk. Damon still shows off when dared. And I still sit quietly, nursing my drink, knowing exactly where I stand in the hierarchy.
Some guys are born with it. Some guys aren’t.
The comparison game isn’t fair. But then again, nobody said it would be.
The End.
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